Neale and Larry and Slingerland planned to go into the hills late in
the fall, visit Slingerland's old camp, and then try to locate the
gold buried by Horn. For the present Larry meant to return to
Benton, and Neale, though vacillating as to his own movements,
decided to keep an eye on the cowboy.

The trapper's last words to Neale were interesting. "Son," he said,
"there's a feller hyar in Medicine Bow who says as how he thought
your pard Larry was a bad cowpuncher from the Pan Handle of Texas."

"Benton 'll work on the cowboy," continued Slingerland, earnestly.
"An', son, I ain't so all-fired sure of you."

"I'll take what comes," returned Neale, shortly. "Good-bye, old
friend. And if you can use us for buffalo-hunting without the 'dom'
Sooz,' as Casey says; why, we'll come."

After Slingerland departed Neale carried with him a memory of the
trapper's reluctant and wistful good-bye. It made Neale think--where
were he and Larry going? Friendships in this wild West were stronger
ties than he had known elsewhere.

The train arrived at Benton after dark. And the darkness seemed a
windy gulf out of which roared yellow lights and excited men. The
tents, with the dim lights through the canvas, gleamed pale and
obscure, like so much of the life they hid. The throngs hurried, the
dust blew, the band played, the barkers clamored for their trade.

Neale found the more pretentious hotels overcrowded, and he was
compelled to go to his former lodgings, where he and Larry were
accommodated.

"Now, we're here, what 'll we do?" queried Neale, more to himself.
He felt as if driven. And the mood he hated and feared was impinging
upon his mind.

"Yes, it must be, Reddy," said Neale, with scorn of himself. "But
you--it needn't apply to you."

"I reckon I'm sorry," rejoined Larry, ignoring Neale's last words.
"I always hoped you'd get over Allie's loss.... You had so much to
live fer."

"Reddy, I wish the bullet that hit Shane to-day had hit me
instead.... You needn't look like that. I mean it. To-day when the
Sioux chased us my hair went stiff and my heart was in my mouth. I
ran for my life as if I loved it. But that was my miserable
cowardice.... I'm sick of the game."

Neale nodded gloomily. He did not even regret the effect of his
speech upon the cowboy. He divined that somehow the moment was as
critical and fateful for Larry, but he did not care. The black spell
was enfolding him. All seemed hard, cold, monstrous within his
breast. He could not love anything. He was lost. He realized the
magnificent loyalty of this simple Texan, who was his true friend.

"Reddy, for God's sake don't make me ashamed to look you in the
eyes," appealed Neale. "I want to go on. You know!"

"Wal, I reckon there ain't anythin' to hold me now," drawled Larry.
He had changed as he spoke. He had aged. The dry humor of the
cowboy, the amiable ease, were wanting.

Neale tore it open and hastily perused its contents. It was a brief,
urgent request from Baxter that Neale should return to work. The
words, almost like an order, made Neale's heart swell for a moment.
He stood there staring at the paper. Larry read the letter over his
shoulder.

"That's all, except the corps have struck a snag out here west of
Benton. It's a bad place. You an' Henney were west in the hills when
this survey was made. It's a deep wash--bad grade an' curves. The
gang's stuck. An' Baxter swore, 'We've got to have Neale back on the
job!'"

"Shore I would if they'd have me. But I reckon thet little run-in of
mine with Smith has made bad feelin'. An' come to think of thet, if
I did go back I'd only have to fight some of Smith's friends. An' I
reckon I'd better not go. It'd only make trouble for you."

"Shore I heerd you," drawled Larry, softly, "but you're goin' back
if I have to hawg-tie you an' pack you out there on a hoss."

Neale said no more. If he had said another word he would have
betrayed himself to his friend. He yearned for his old work. To
think that the engineer corps needed him filled him with joy. But at
the same time he knew what an effort it would take to apply himself
to any task. He hated to attempt it. He doubted himself. He was
morbid. All that day he wandered around at Larry's heels, half
oblivious of what was going on. After dark he slipped away from his
friend to be alone. And being alone in the dark quietness brought
home to him the truth of a strange, strong growth, out of the depths
of him, that was going to overcome his morbid craving to be idle, to
drift, to waste his life on a haunting memory.

He could not sleep that night, and so was awake when Larry lounged
in, slow and heavy. The cowboy was half-drunk. Neale took him to
task, and they quarreled. Finally Larry grew silent and fell asleep.
After that Neale likewise dropped into slumber.

In the morning Larry was again his old, cool, easy, reckless self,
and had apparently forgotten Neale's sharp words. Neale, however,
felt a change in himself. This was the first morning for a long time
that he had not hated the coming of daylight.

When he and Larry went out the sun was high. For Neale there seemed
something more than sunshine in the air. At sight of Campbell,
waiting in the same place in which they had encountered him
yesterday, Neale's pulses quickened.

"You want to hurry," rejoined Campbell. "We've only a half-hour to
eat an' catch the work-train."

Larry strode back toward the lodging-house. And it was Campbell who
led Neale into the restaurant and ordered the meal. Neale's mind was
not in a whirl, nor dazed, but he did not get much further hi
thought than the remarkable circumstance of General Lodge sending
for him personally. Meanwhile Campbell rapidly talked about masonry,
road-beds, washouts, and other things that Neale heard but did not
clearly understand. Then Larry returned. He carried Neale's bag,
which he deposited carefully on the bench.

The ride appeared slow and long, dragged out by innumerable stops.
All along the line laborers awaited the train to unload supplies. At
the end of the line there was a congestion Neale had not observed
before in all the work. Freight-cars, loaded with stone and iron
beams and girders for bridge-work, piles of ties and piles of rails,
and gangs of idle men attested to the delay caused by an obstacle to
progress. The sight aggressively stimulated Neale. He felt very
curious to learn the cause of the setback, and his old scorn of
difficulties flashed up.

The camp Neale's guide led him to was back some distance from the
construction work. It stood in a little valley through which ran a
stream. There was one large building, low and flat, made of boards
and canvas, adjoining a substantial old log cabin; and clustered
around, though not close together, were a considerable number of
tents. Troopers were in evidence, some on duty and many idle. In the
background, the slopes of the valley were dark green with pine and
cedar.

At the open door of the building Neale met Baxter face to face, and
that worthy's greeting left Neale breathless and aghast, yet
thrilling with sheer gladness.

"The boss 'll talk to you. Get in there!" Baxter replied, and pushed
Neale inside. It was a big room, full of smoke, noise, men, tables,
papers. There were guns stacked under port-holes. Some one spoke to
Neale, but he did not see who it was. All the faces he saw so
swiftly appeared vague, yet curious and interested. Then Baxter
halted him at a table. Once again Neale faced his chief. Baxter
announced something. Neale did not hear the words plainly.

"Hello, Neale!" he said, offering his hand, and the flash of a smile
went over his grim face.

"Come in here," continued the chief, and he led Neale into another
room, of different aspect. It was small; the walls were of logs; new
boards had been recently put in the floor; new windows had been cut;
and it contained Indian blankets, chairs, a couch.

Here General Lodge bent a stern and piercing gaze upon his former
lieutenant.

"Neale, you failed me when you quit your job," he said. "You were my
right-hand man. You quit me in my hour of need."

"General, I--I was furious at that rotten commissioner deal,"
replied Neale, choking. What he had done now seemed an offense to
his chief. "My work was ordered done over!"

"Neale, that was nothing to what I've endured. You should have grit
your teeth--and gone on. That five miles of reconstruction was
nothing--nothing."

In his chief's inflexible voice, in the worn, shadowed face, Neale
saw the great burden, and somehow he was reminded of Lincoln, and a
passion of remorse seized him. Why had he not been faithful to this
steadfast man who had needed him!

"Benton!" exclaimed the chief, bitterly. "I am responsible for
Benton. This great work of my life is a hell on wheels, moving on
and on.... Your cowboy friend has no doubt found his place--and his
match--in Benton."

"I'm glad to hear that--gladder than you can guess. I was afraid--
But no matter.... What you did do is bad enough. You ought to be
ashamed. A young man with your intelligence, your nerve, your gifts!
I have not had a single man whose chances compared with yours. If
you had stuck you'd be at the head of my engineer corps right now.
Baxter is played out. Boone is ill. Henney had to take charge of the
shops in Omaha.... And you, with fortune and fame awaiting you,
throw up your job to become a bum... to drink and gamble away your
life in these rotten camps!"

"Sir, you may not know I--I lost some one--very dear to me. After
that I didn't seem to care." Neale turned to the window. He was
ashamed of what blurred his eyes. "If it hadn't been for that--I'd
never have failed you."

The chief strode to Neale and put a hand on his shoulder. "Son, I
believe you. Maybe I've been a little hard. Let's forget it." His
tone softened and there was a close pressure of his hand. "The thing
is now--will you come back on the job?"

"Baxter's note--Campbell said they'd struck a snag here. You mean
help them get by that?"

"Snag! I guess it is a snag. It bids fair to make all our labor and
millions of dollars--wasted.... But I'm not asking you to come back
just to help us over this snag. I mean will you come back for good--
and stick?"

Neale was lifted out of the gloom into which memory had plunged him.
He turned to his chief and found him another person. There was a
light on his face and eagerness on his lips, and the keen, stern
eyes were soft.

"Son, will you come back--stand by me till the finish?" repeated
General Lodge, his voice deep and full. There was more here than
just the relation of employer to his lieutenant.

Neale remained standing, his eyes fixed on the gray-green slope,
seen through the window. He seemed a trifle unsteady on his feet,
and he braced himself with a knee against the couch. His restraint,
under extreme agitation, began to relax. A flooding splendid thought
filled his mind--his chief had called him back to the great work.

Presently the door behind him opened and closed very softly. Then he
heard a low, quick gasp. Some one had entered. Suddenly the room
seemed strange, full, charged with terrible portent. And he turned
as if a giant hand had heavily swung him around.

It was not light at the other end of the room, yet he saw a slight
figure of a girl backed against the door. Her outline was familiar.
Haunting ghost of his dreams! Bewildered and speechless, he stared,
trembling all over. The figure moved, swayed. A faint, sweet voice
called, piercing his heart like a keen blade. All of a sudden he had
gone mad, he thought; this return to his old work had disordered his
mind. The tremor of his body succeeded to a dizziness; his breast
seemed about to burst.

"Neale!" called the sweet voice. She was coming toward him swiftly.
"It's allie--alive and well!"